


With Feathered Love

by kyuubi_wench



Category: Original Work, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Shapeshifters, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 07:16:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 4,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyuubi_wench/pseuds/kyuubi_wench
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>crossover of Avengers characters into a world concept I'm building for an original fiction. The setting and side characters will be mine, the obvious Avengers characters are NOT. </p><p>Mostly a series of one-shots and drabbles, some prompted by friends. May or may not be continued, as the muse strikes</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Questions

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate Universe is Earth- based, pre-gun powder era. Or at least the original version is. Shape-shifters are genetic, neither magic or curse. Loosely set in a shifters- community/ civilization that has mostly cut itself off from humans. Don't expect to see a lot of them...

 

Tony frowned as he followed the dryly sarcastic hawk along the creek. He hadn’t even known the other man was a hawk until this morning when Clint had shown up at his door, bow in one hand and wings spread wide behind him. Tony, as the new human to the village, still hadn’t gotten used to the concept the entire village was full of damn shape-shifters. Or something.

 

Clint had been insistent that Tony meet the only clan not represented at the previous night’s feast, and to do it as soon as possible. The only question Tony had was what the clan was. And why Clint was the one leading him. And why the hell they were walking all the way out of the village to where the river opened up into the wide bay.

 

Ok, Tony had a lot of questions. It was in his nature.

 

Apparently, it was in Clint’s nature to ignore the hell out of him, or at one point tell him that Tony ‘was human, you’ll figure things out’.

 

 

 

****

 

 

 

The squeals and barking reached his ears long before he could see any people. Clint led him unerringly toward a low built hut sprawled along the edge of the water, ignoring the brown shapes splashing around. Muzzles lifted into the air, bodies floating deceptively easily as the shapes watched them pass. Otters. Giant fucking otters, staring out of the water and calming the surface into smooth glass as hawk and human approached.

 

A tall human stepped out of the hut and greeted Clint with marked reservation, only bothering to give Tony a passing glance. “Human. Hawk.”

 

“Coul. This is Tony, he’s our newest human in the village. Tony, may I introduce Coul, head of the otter clan.”

 

Tony grinned widely, unashamed and not showing the least bit of his nerves. “Coal. Good to meet ya. Do you guys not like the rest of the village or something, because- ”

 

Clint’s foot came crushing down on Tony’s, making the human bite his cheek in surprised pain. “It’s Coul. Not ‘coal’. Say it right.” Clint barely finished speaking when his own face split into a wide grin. A huge form, with a head the height of Tony’s waist, lean mean length of otter came up out of the river. The newcomer shifted smoothly, water and fur sluicing away to reveal a very naked human male. “Tony, say hi to Phillip, son of Coul.”

 

“Phillip Coulson. Cool.”

 

Tony never saw the punch coming, only the wheezing rush of air leaving his chest. Phillip was grinning in a way that showed sharp little canines, his grey-blue eyes glinting with amusement and aggression. He had a charming, vicious smile and trust-me eyes, hair the rich brown of his fur and a lean, muscle-bound body.

 

Tony could, possibly, be crushing on the otter-man.

 

Clint helped Tony upright with a hand on his shoulder. It became a rock-hard grip as Clint leaned in and hissed against his ear. “Insult him and he’ll hurt you. Flirt, and I will hurt you. Touch him, and you’ll never hear the shot coming.”

 

Tony backed away as soon as he was released, eyes wide at the way Phillip had wrapped an arm around Clint’s shoulders. So *that’s* why Clint was the one to bring him.

 

Strategic withdrawal is not an admittance of defeat, Tony firmly reminded himself as he left. He just wasn’t dumb enough to piss off an archer and an entire colony of giant otter shifters. He certainly wasn’t suicidal.  


 

****  


 


	2. First meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First time Clint sees Phillip

 

  
The first time Clint had seen met the otters, he’d been wounded, exhausted, and lost. Not something a hawk like him would be proud of, but fever and pain would help any being lose their way. The otters spared him from the river, handed his broken body to the local village of shifters, and disappeared.

 

 

 

The first time Clint had coherently met the clan leader, Coul, he’d come to offer his gratitude to the otter clan. They had spared his life, and he owed them at least his thanks for doing so. His broken wing was mending rapidly, but he couldn’t fly yet, wouldn’t for a couple more weeks. He met with Coul, who shrugged off his thanks and told him that the hawk had better be more careful. Matters of hawks were not matters for otters, air and water and ground being separate hunting grounds for them. When Clint left, he passed a tall, lean young man entering the low building. Clint swallowed at the brilliantly flashed grin and left while he could still hold his tongue.

 

 

 

Clint saw otter- Phillip a few days later, as he sat preening at the water’s edge. The village was a few dozen yards behind him, clusters of houses around the village center. The otter’s head lifted from the water very close to his feet, but slowly, without splashing. Clint had tugged loose a feather with a broken base, light fracturing off the deep black in a way that brought out low highlights. Clint would deny they shimmered purple, in the right light, but he’d never had another creature stare at his feathers with the same intensity as the otter creeping from the river. He offered the feather out to the curious, snuffling nose, and was pleasantly surprised when it was delicately taken from his hand. Grey blue eyes glimmered above the wet, dark nose, and Clint recognized the eyes from the man who had smiled at him. Then the otter slipped under the water’s surface and was gone.

 

  
Clint hadn’t even gotten a name.

 

 

 


	3. Debts

 

 

 

“You’re Clint. The hawk.”

 

 

 

He doesn’t jump, because that would be telling, but he hasn’t heard the man sneak up on him. Clint takes a deep breath and releases the bowstring, arrow finding its target. The rabbit shrills momentarily while Clint turns to look. The otter-man stands behind him, a neutral smile curling his lips slightly. Clint smiles back, happy when the man’s eyes light up in return. “They say you have not missed yet.”

 

 

 

“Never.” It is truth, more than boasting. He simply doesn’t miss. Clint glances down to the open palm the man offers to him, and finds several small metal arrowheads. He hasn’t been able to buy them yet, without money or resource to his name currently. He gapes a moment, quick to catch them as the hand tips over. “Thank you.”

 

 

 

The man shrugs. “I am Phil, Coul’s son. This is nothing.” Phil turns and strides away, shifting forms a moment later and disappearing into the nearby stream with nothing but the softest splashing marking his passing.

 

 

 

Great. Clint owes the otter clan leader’s son, debt on debt. He pays his debts, can’t let them be just ‘nothing’.

 

 

 

****

 

 

 

“I owe you for those arrowheads.” Clint’s stringing up his night’s catch- two squirrels shot through the head and another rabbit. The pelt of a third squirrel is laid out on a nearby drying board, slashes in the fur marking a mid-air catch in hawk form.

 

 

 

“And I told you, you owe me nothing.” Phil has found Clint’s blade and is sharpening it. “You are new here, and had a rough start. A few metal bits are nothing to me.”

 

 

 

“The price of metal out here must be expensive-” Clint argues, but he is cut off. Phil’s laugh is low, deep, and contagious.

 

 

 

“When you find something worth more than pearls and mother-of-pearl, Clint Hawk, let me know.” Phil offers him another smile, this one more open than the first, and the little fangs showing at the edges are anything but delicate. Otter eyeteeth, trapped in a man’s mouth.

 

 

 

Clint is silent when he accepts the knife back, suddenly wondering if he _can_ repay the perceived debt. If the otters trade in pearls, there’s not much Clint can think of that he can acquire of comparable worth.

 

 

 

“Second east creek, dawn, three days.” With another wide smile Phil shifts effortlessly to otter and slinks off toward the water, leaving Clint behind to decipher the meeting place alone.

 

 

 


	4. First Day's Training

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Bridged from the previous scene, direct continuation)

 

“Second east creek, dawn, three days.” With another wide smile Phil shifts effortlessly to otter and slinks off toward the water, leaving Clint behind to decipher the meeting place alone.

 

 

 

 

The sun is a promisingly line of less-than-night on the horizon when Clint circles above the trees. He’s early, but not by much, considering how fast sunrise can happen in late summer. His sharp eyes detect flickers of movement but no shapes slink out from the underbrush, and there’s barely any ripples in the water.

 

 

 

He drops to a branch, searching for any sign of Phil in the vague movements on the ground. A shape comes from nowhere, blurred movement in his peripheral that is on him before he can react, and he takes flight. A snake’s jaws slam shut against his tail feathers and he tumbles, dipping further down the tree before he can take back control of his flight. He breaks away from the trees, turning over the water and hovering in the open air.

 

 

 

He can hear the sharp whistling squeal, otter- pitch, but can’t lock onto it before weapons emerge from the ground and trees. Clint ducks several darts, twists away from what looks to be dried-mud balls the size of his fist, and slams beak- first into a net.

 

 

 

A net that is spider-web thin but strong, clinging to his wings and body. He drops like a dead-weight toward the water, honest fear of drowning rising in the back of his mind as he forces his body to change shape. He doesn’t know if the net will hold against the shift, hopes not, but knows better than to hit the water while in bird form and trapped. Something catches him, holds him tight while he flails for a moment, instinct and change fighting each other and the unknown assailant.

 

 

 

A chirping noise fills his ears and the vibrations echo through his body, and Clint shoves down his reactions. Silence returns to the trees and the water, and he looks up into Phil’s face, eyes almost black in the dim light. “Thanks,” Clint manages to whisper when he’s human enough, and Phil grins and drops him into the water.

 

 

 

It’s his first morning of training with other people and species. It’ll be far from his last.

 

 

 


	5. Flirting

 

 

 

Clint earns his place in the village by trading, providing an extra set of hands where needed, and training with the militia-type forces. His accuracy is only rivaled by a few people, and none have his deadly skills with the bow. Phil uses a pair of knives, resorting to teeth and ripping claws and sheer physical strength when nothing else suffices. Clint loses spectacularly to Phil on a few of their fights, mostly when he underestimates Phil’s flexibility and maneuverability in both forms and the speed Phil can change between them.

 

 

 

Clint may be slightly jealous of the ease and speed Phil can shift. He may be also (just slightly, he hasn’t quite admitted it to himself yet) be crushing on the otter. Something about being pinned to the dirt under the sweeping pine tree and having Phil grin down at him… Well, Clint surely can’t be blamed too much when he uses the moment to sweep his foot out and rock Phil off of him. He can, he supposes, be held responsible for trying to steal a kiss (unplanned, spur of the moment, and hyped on adrenaline) which ends up cracking their foreheads together.

 

 

 

He _is_ jealous that he bruises, a smudge the size of the end of his thumb, and Phil merely has a small red dot for five minutes on his own forehead.

 

 

 


	6. prompt: alcohol/ drinking

 

 

 

Clint peers into the rich ale many of the little village are drinking tonight. The smell is nothing like anything he’s found before, not even by the humans, and he’s wary of drinking it. A large dark hand curves around the tankard and pulls it from his grip.

 

 

 

“If you won’t drink it, little hawk, share with someone who _will_ enjoy it.” Clint stares up into the face of one of the bear twins, and promptly nods. He doesn’t dare challenge any of the bears, not over food, drink, or weapons. It’s always dangerous.

 

 

 

A weight settles onto his shoulder and Clint processes the double information of _otter_ and _ale_ and holds in his groan. Phillip is flirty when sober, but he’s absolutely dangerous when drunk. All that careful control starts to crack when he drinks, and Clint wraps an arm around Phillip and turns them away from the feast.

 

 

 

Phillip nuzzles against his neck, whuffling slightly and then passing what Clint knows is a greeting, a whistle- chirp that still sounds perfect in the human throat. Clint chirps his own greeting, and the instant he gets close enough to the stream that runs behind the village, he’s dropping Phillip in.

 

 

 

He gets an explosion of fur and madly churning limbs tearing apart the water, before the sleek furred body slinks out of the water. None of the usual grace lingers on Phillip’s otter body, instead he staggers across the bank and nearly smacks nose first into a tree.

 

 

 

“Phil. Just don’t drown yourself.”

 

 

 

Phillip turns to him, shrieks and chirps and is suddenly pouncing in a random zigzag that eventually plants him into Clint’s legs. The instant Clint’s on the ground the mass of otter is sprawled across his chest, chirping and purring.

 

 

 

“Fine. You’re not drowning. But you’re not sleeping on me.”

 

 

 

 

 


	7. Terrifying Meeting

 

 

 

Clint knows he’s large for his breed, that normal animal members of his hawk species are a bit smaller than him. But this seems to be a trend- the shifters he’s met are always a bit larger than their animal counterparts. The larger the animal species, the bigger the change in mass, oddly. Phillip was larger than any otter Clint had ever seen, even in pictures. The first time he saw one of the bears in mid-shift he’d been intimidated, until the transformation was complete. The bear had stood up and towered over most of the one- story houses, immense and terrifying. Clint knew that the bears within the village were level- headed and reasonable, but it didn’t dent the instinctive fear that this creature was so much bigger and stronger.

 

 

 

 

 

It was twenty times worse when the snake warren emptied in late spring. Most of the snakes seemed to be average, if maybe longer than anticipated, but there was an old snake, huge and blotchy with age, eyes clouded, that followed the flood of younglings. It was _huge_ , head bigger around than even Phil’s body, and so long his entire tail was still in the burrow when the serpent tipped his chin up to the sun, coils of thick body boosting his head to Clint’s eye level.

 

 

 

Clint stared in terror at the serpent, brain ticking away the pits on the nose- a viper, not a constrictor, so venom instead of a crushing death, and the empty eyes- most likely blind, but with the pits it didn’t need eyes. Vipers were warmth- seekers, zeroing in on scent and heat to track their prey. The hawk part of him was screaming, wanting to flee. This was no hatchling, no small garden snake to steal for lunch. No. This would be his death, as permanent a death as he’d ever faced. The huge head lowered, and Clint stared into the empty eyes and felt his chest constrict, lungs crushing and throat swallowing reflexively without managing to clear the terrible tension. A long tongue flickered out, almost brushing Clint’s cheek on its way.

 

 

 

Warm arms were suddenly around his shoulders, Phil’s scent filling him and fighting back the fear. Clint still couldn’t look away, could only see that head and forked tongue and the still- hidden fangs. “Greetings from the otters, nest keeper. May the sun warm your blood and every hunt be fruitful. I present Clint Hawk, a newcomer in my care.” Phil’s hands clenched unforgivingly on Clint’s shoulders, and the long tongue this time _did_ brush over Clint. Phil’s hands held him in place, but nothing could stop the terror- induced shriek that clawed its way from the hawk’s throat.

 

 

 

The snake turned away and slithered off between the houses, disappearing into the undergrowth in far less time than something of that size should be able to do. Clint fought against Phil’s hold the instant the unnerving terror released him, suddenly thrashing and crying out as the fear turned to anger.

 

 

 

“Why did you do that?”

 

 

 

“Better he knows your scent and won’t take you for prey next time you meet. Now he won’t eat you.” Phil soothed. “He’s the oldest snake in the clan, and only comes out during spring and summer. Most of the time you won’t ever see him- but it’s better he knows you are part of the village.”

 

 

 

 

Clint couldn’t argue the reasoning, but he stalked off, fighting the residual terror of meeting the creature. He hated feeling weak.

 

 

 

 

 


	8. prompt: Fishing

 

 

 

There’s something calm and satisfying about hunting, usually. If he’s human, with the bow, it’s like an inner peace he can never put into words. And as a hawk- well, he’s free and floating and it ends with a slight mad rush of a dive that will spike his adrenalin, but it’s still calming. Sinking his beak into whatever his meal of the day is, that’s just pride in work well done.

 

 

 

Fishing- fishing is anything other than that. Phil makes it look easy, all sleek and lined and dipping after fish in motions that would give Clint envy if he were capable. But the water doesn’t lure him the way it might if he were a diving bird, a skua or a gull or such. He’s attempted it, the fishing thing. Tried it on a wing, dipping for a beautiful flash in a shallow stream, had his claws in it but the damn thing fairly _slithered_ from his talons. It had fallen back in and splashed his face for good measure. He’d tried it as a human, patient as the bears standing in the river, but even with his fingertips sharp and lethal he has troubles keeping a hold of the fish. By the time he can get them knocked out and set aside, half the ribs are missing, prime meat gone from the fresh carcass.

 

 

 

The humans, the _real_ humans, showed him how to tie a line, use a stick and hook and bait the damn fish. It’s deceptively easy, setting up line and lure. And then.. he’s got nothing to do but _wait_ , wait under a warm sun or raining sky, once, because everyone swore fish bite best during the rain.

 

 

 

But Clint does not like the feeling of being soaked through, and sunlight beating off the water makes his sharp eyes burn and drip. He spends a summer trying to learn, summer and autumn, until the trees have shed their leaves and the local grain harvest has been dragged in. He learns, tries over and over, all the ways he knows.

 

 

 

Clint resigns fishing back to the ones who do it best. He prefers the solemn quiet of the air, after all, and the deathly twang of his bow. He doesn’t need to fish for a living.

 

 

 

 

And should he get a craving for the fresh river-meat, well, he has a boyfriend for that.

 

 


	9. Promt: Hurt/ Comfort

 

 

 

There’s a skirmish, more practice, than anything else, but Clint flies into it without previous warning. He’s taken by honest surprise, flying through a fairly familiar clearing when the nets drop. It’s like his first foray with training with these people all over again, but he’s flying fairly low and the nets come out of _nowhere_. They’re the special ones, triple-woven spider silk, weighted around the edges. He manages to dodge the first one and flies right into the middle of the second, weights wrapping the net around his avian body, tight and strong.

 

 

 

He’s falling, from only a man’s height above the forest floor, before he realizes he can’t get loose. He’s too low to shift, and shrieks when he takes the blow against his wing and ribs as he lands. It takes but a minute before hands are on him, untangling his body and bumping the injured wing. It’s all he can do not to snap at the hands, knowing whoever is half- mauling his body is only trying to help, but it _hurts_ , damn them.

 

 

 

He shifts as soon as enough of the net is free, taking account of the bite in his ribs and the deep, throbbing ache in his shoulder. He was lucky, he can feel it, that he didn’t break his wing. Deeply bruised, though, and he won’t be able to fly for a while until the swelling in his ribs go down. He accepts the apologies of the group and starts walking his own way back to his little house, grateful that his chest took the damage and not his legs. At least he is mobile, under his own power.

 

 

 

Phil squeaks at him from the river when Clint walks past, and he barely remembers to not try and wave with the abused arm. He can _feel_ the swelling in his muscles and the shoulder joint, waving would likely set the whole side of his body on fire. Instead he uses his other hand.

 

 

 

Phil tips his fuzzy head and comes churning out of the river , shifting in his smooth fashion as soon as his feet hit dirt. He is sniffing over Clint in moments, fingers poking around the bruise already showing up, the bruise just starting to turn sickly blue-black but nowhere near as large and colorful as it would be by morning, or in a couple days. Clint bites back on the whimper but Phil knows, anyway. Phil checks him, makes him slowly straighten his arm to make sure nothing is broken, even though it does feel like fire along his body, presses slow and deep against his ribs to make sure nothing is broken there, either.

 

 

 

He also ignores the flood of cursing that pours from Clint as he checks everything. Clint’s not stubborn, usually, and knows his own body well enough. But Phil _cares_. Especially when it’s Clint, so he checks over the hawk thoroughly and sends him off with a promise to check on him later and a whiskery kiss, back to his otter body as soon as he’s done digging into Clint’s side.

 

 

 

He’ll bring him cold rocks, later, to press against the worst of the bruising, and fresh meat, still warm. It’s how these things work. Clint won’t let himself be treated as unable to do _anything_ , but Phil knows his gestures will be appreciated.

 

 

 


	10. prompt: cross- species breeding

 

 

 

Steve is human, a warrior that is all smiles and noble attitude, which degrades into a fierce spirit and unerring brutal accuracy in combat; and who argues incessantly with Tony for days after the human tinker comes to the village. He's watched the evolving relationship between otter and hawk, but like most humans, he doesn't ask questions. The matters of shifters, in love and sex, are not the sort of things humans will speak of. There are few who have had the privilege, nerves, or death wish to ask of such things, and fewer yet are the shifters who will answer and give proper explanation.

 

Tony, however, has nerves _and_ a death wish. “So how does it work for you two, ya know, being separate species and all?” 

 

Phil ignores him, sprawled out in his otter body and exuding 'don't bother me, can't be bothered' vibes. Instead it's Clint who looks sharply to the side, eyes narrowing as he cocks his head slightly. “Are you asking how we manage to _fuck_ , Tony?” He's in human form, all tightly wired muscle built onto a broad chest and otherwise nearly-slender form. He manages to look absolutely terrifying, to anyone with a healthy sense of self- preservation. 

 

Tony doesn't always display that same sense often. Steve claps a hand down on the man's shoulder in an effort to stall the words he can see forming on his fellow human's mind. It doesn't quite work.

 

“Well, yes, and no. I mean, forget your human body for a second. You're not even both birds or both mammals. If one of you were female, would that mean you could still breed? Or would you just have human children?”

 

 

“We'd have an empty den.” Phil rolls over, fur gone and _fuck_ , Tony is actually a bit jealous of how fast and easily the man can shift forms. He sits up a little more and stares across the fire-pit, watching the otter get up onto his knees. “Two birds could mate, and possibly clutch. Two mammals of different clans could mate, and at least have human children with the animal trapped inside them. Trapped souls that mate back into the clan will breed, young with forms true to the clan. It's in the blood, our animals, and they will not be denied for long.” 

 

Tony takes in the slow flow of words, and the way Phil's face looks pinched. And then watches more as Clint wraps an arm around Phil's shoulders, nearly protective. There is history here, something painful, that is left unsaid. “What about with humans?” If his voice is calmer, quieter, no one calls Tony out on it.

 

“Human- mammal mating is successful for human children with trapped souls. Humans with anything else is not successful. At all.”

 

Tony opens his mouth to ask another question, but this time Steve's sharp blow to his ribs gets through, and Tony takes in the cross- species lovers before going silent. He can concede that's enough personal information for one night. Instead he murmurs his gratitude, retreating as soon as it doesn't seem cowardly. Next time he'll ask someone else.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a thought on dominant genetics. What can breed with what and spawn, and what will that spawn be? Seriously considering keeping the base concepts presented in this chapter for my original fic. It's a peek at what I would permit for something more than just sex, and how genetic control of a population would work.

**Author's Note:**

> In case anyone needs it, here is a picture of the animal Phil is based on:  
> http://seancrane.com/blogphotos/giant_river_otters_17.jpg
> 
>  
> 
> Now, make that the height of your average rottweiler and appropriate correlating length to species. Have I terrified anyone yet?


End file.
